


check, please

by Oshii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hungover Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Being an Asshole, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, emeto, lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 12:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: S2-ish. Dean is hungover and Sam is sympathetic at first, then decides to be a shitheel. Mild h/c, mixed with humor.





	check, please

**Author's Note:**

> Dean makes a "fat chick" joke. Sam chastises him for it. I don't condone it personally, but I knew another dude irl who was monstrously hungover and made the same comment, and it...just seemed to fit naturally with Dean. Apologies in advance.

_10:32 am_

_Coyote Springs Motel_

_Tulsa, OK_

Rain pounded the ground-level windows, streaking repetitive tracks down the panes. In the distance, a roll of thunder crescendoed to a booming snarl, and the lights dimmed momentarily. Spring had arrived early, and the anticipated storms had rolled in with a vengeance. Sam didn’t anticipate any tornado action, not yet, but the thunderstorm would probably slow their travel time this morning. Add that to the fact that he’d woken up late, because _Dean_ had slept in so fucking late, and Sam was not pleased by this morning’s itinerary. They’d hoped to make it to their interview with Mrs. Dawson by one this afternoon. He didn’t think that was gonna happen now, even if they shagged ass.

He bent over and picked up a wad of last night’s clothes, giving them an experimental sniff. They passed. He straightened up and threw them into the duffel lying open atop the bed.

“Dean!” He shouted, craning his neck. “C’mon, dude, I gotta shower too.”

There was no reply. Sam rolled his eyes and continued packing, figuring his brother was in the middle of jerking off or brushing his teeth super meticulously or something. He gave the room a thorough once-over, mentally cataloguing their belongings. His shit, Dean’s shit, their shared shit – clothes, sawed-off shotgun, salt pellets, his virus-loaded laptop, first aid kit – all packed away in their respective bags. Dean’s 1911 lay on his nightstand, still, next to one of the complimentary motel glasses. It shone vaguely with sticky whiskey residue, and Sam realized, with a sigh, why Dean was taking so long in the bathroom.

“Dean?” he called again, straightening up and edging closer to the bathroom. “You okay in there?”

From within the bathroom, Dean coughed and groaned – something that might’ve been _Sammy…_ but Sam wouldn’t be relinquishing much sympathy, not this time.

He heaved an exasperated sigh and tried the knob, expecting it to be locked – and the door opened easily, transmuting his expression into mild surprise. “Dean?”

His brother looked like hell. Disheveled and hungover, he wearily raised his red-rimmed eyes to look at Sam with regret.  “Ugh,” he groaned. “’f I ever even _look_ at a fifth of Ev—“  

He suddenly lurched over the bowl again with a messy retch. Sam cringed at the violence of his heaves, and began to rethink his assertions on withholding sympathy for his brother’s current condition.

“Damn, dude,” he murmured, catching Dean in a brief moment of respite, going over to rest a warm heavy hand on his back. Dean panted in the aftermath, spat out a long string of drool, and groaned. The way he rested his forehead on the rim of the bowl was slow and deliberate, indicating his utter defeat.

“God…” he moaned. “’head’s friggin _killin_ me….like I got run over by a dump truck full of fat chicks.”

Sam spluttered with laughter at that, instinctive, reminded of their teenage years, and then he steeled himself. Nah – if Dean were well enough to make _that_ fucking joke, he would in fact survive the day. “Dude, not cool. Not their fault you drank your way through a fifth of bottom-shelf rotgut.”

Dean groaned again, and Sam gave his brother a consoling rub between his shoulders.

Eventually, he was able to coax Dean up off the bathroom floor and get him to actually take a shower, to dress himself and brush his teeth and splash some water on his face and sit on the edge of the bed while Sam made a last, quick run-through around the room.

“C’n I help?” Dean muttered, gazing blearily up through heavy lids and seven o’clock shadow. He looked like _Taxi Driver_ -era Pacino coming down off a week’s worth of cheap blow. It was truly a sight to behold, and not a pretty one, either.

“Just sit there and look pitiful. You’re doing great,” Sam muttered, not even looking at him. “All right, think that’s everything. Get in the car. Wait,” he interrupted Dean before Dean even had a chance to speak. “I’m driving.”

“Why.” Just like that. Deadpan, vaguely pissed, green eyes more focused than they’d been all morning.

“Because you can barely hold your head up, Hangover Harold. Now c’mon. Think the diner down the street’s got a pretty good blue plate special.” Sam suddenly grinned a nasty, evil grin. “Think it’s a big greasy pork sandwich served in a dirty ashtray. Five ninety-nine.”

Dean gagged emphatically, whole face scrunching up, one hand flying up to cover his mouth. Sam let out a little cackle as he swung their duffels over his shoulder, and Dean made a small miserable noise as he reluctantly stood to follow, bitching about his brother, about the rain, and about the fact that he’d actually lived to tell last night’s tale of solo debauchery.

 “Payback’s a bitch, huh,” he muttered after Sam’s retreating back, heading out the door, but not before grabbing his sunglasses off the end table (hey – the lightning strikes were kinda bright, kinda fuckin hurt. Everything hurt, he kinda wanted to die).

“Don’t worry, Dean,” Sam called after him, throwing their bags in the trunk, seemingly oblivious to the flashing lighting and pouring rain that plastered his long hair to his smugly smirking face. “I’ll grab you a barf bag before we hit the road.”

“Fuck you, Sam.”

\--0—

_11:23 am_

They did stop at the diner on their way out of town, because Sam was fucking starving. They did not, in fact, get said greasy pork sandwich (but there were a few dirty ashtrays present, because this whole goddamn town seemed to be stuck in the Mesozoic Era).

Sam ordered three eggs over easy with wheat toast and hashbrowns and sausage links, and Dean ordered a cup of black coffee and excused himself to go vomit harshly in the restroom. He returned a while later, sweating and pasty. His coffee was cold and Sam was almost finished with his own breakfast.

“Honestly, Dean, I’m not sure what’s impressing me more,” Sam began, mouth full of potatoes. “That I could hear you yak from right here, or that you’re still wearing your sunglasses.”

Dean curled his lip in a weak snarl, pushing said sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose and settling wearily into the booth. He closed his eyes as Sam poured ketchup on his last smidgeon of egg yolk-and-hashbrown disaster, already feeling his gorge rising again. _God_ , his head was pounding, and the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead were not helping matters.

“Christ, Sam,” he mumbled thickly. “You eatin’ like a rhinoceros in heat just to make me fuckin sick? Cause if so, congrats. It’s working.”

Sam beamed through his full mouth, eyes twinkling in a way they hadn’t since he was six years old and Dad bought them a box of name-brand Lucky Charms to eat whenever they wanted while he was gone.

The waitress came up, then, to deliver the check, and clucked sympathetically when she saw Dean. “Oh, honey, you look awful.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, managing to crane his neck up for a glance. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“He smells awful, too,” Sam added helpfully, taking entirely too much pleasure in their current situation. He shoveled the last forkful of breakfast into his mouth, watching the exchange like an eager kid.

The waitress blushed, and waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, no, honey, I meant that you look _sick_. We’re runnin a special of our homemade venison chili, seven bean, with red peppers. Robert there makes the red sauce himself, and lemme tell ya -“

Dean gagged and clapped a hand over his mouth, lurching forward and hustling back out of the booth. Sam and their waitress both watched as he bolted for the bathroom again, and they exchanged a look. Sam simply shrugged, offering her a charming smile of his own.

“I’ll take the check, please.”

 


End file.
